


Gottle of Geer

by etal



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/pseuds/etal
Summary: Armie bought that Timmy ventriloquist's dummy on ebay





	Gottle of Geer

Armie wakes up in his elegantly-appointed Monaco hotel room, face-down on his phone. His hangover reveals itself slowly: it has unexpected twists and turns, including a new kind of leg cramp, an impressively all-skull headache and a sense of dread which deepens into despair in a series of stomach-clenching drops, like he’s on an untrustworthy ferris wheel at an unpleasant carnival.

He charges his phone while he cleans his teeth and manfully doesn’t vomit, his unease increasing along with the rapid pings of incoming messages and notifications. He can’t quite remember what he was up to the night before. He had been very, very drunk. Checking his phone to assess the damage, it turns out he tweeted something about… oh fuck, delete, delete… At least it looks like he didn’t text Timmy, he half-recalls having a crying jag in the early hours but he hasn’t acted on it, thank god. He _did_ send an angry message to his agent, which is going to require an apology, and at some point he downloaded _Rainy Day in New York_ from a dodgy looking torrent site and...

...ebay? He hasn’t been on ebay since he surreptitiously bid for his own mask from _The Lone Ranger_. Vague snatches of memory start to return to him as he opens the message: **Success! You won your item!**

So, it appears drunk Armie has paid $134,050, easily outbidding iluvt*****ee, for possession of a satanic-looking ventriloquist’s dummy… of Timmy, stand not included. 

The courier package arrives three days later. It’s waiting for him in his room when he comes back from the _Rebecca_ set. The drunk plan, as best as he can reconstruct it, had been to prank Timmy somehow. They’d talked vaguely about getting together for a weekend while they’re both in Europe, hide somewhere and get back to where they last left off, which was Timmy coming down Armie’s throat in a restaurant bathroom in New York before he flew off for _Dune_. So he had this idea of jumping out at him with it or putting it in their bed or just sending it to him with no explanation. But he hasn’t heard from Timmy for a while, and he’s not going to _beg_. He’s not going to say it first. 

Man, he misses him though. They don’t talk like they used to, really. When they get together, it’s passionate and frantic and amazing, but they don’t have time to talk, not like Crema or the tour. He thinks it’s probably fizzling out, which is probably for the best. Timmy’s got a world to conquer. Just let it die away quietly.

Speaking of which, he’s seen enough horror films to know he should smash the dummy to pieces immediately or burn it to ashes. But now it’s here, well, it cost him _one hundred and thirty thousand dollars_ , plus he kind of likes it, it’s quite sweet. The nose is too big maybe but the eyes are pretty, its hair is soft, and it has a gentle, understanding expression he recognises. It’s wearing Timmy’s Golden Globe outfit: its pants are neatly pressed, with a sharp crease down the front; its shoes are shiny and its cute sequinned harness is an impressive copy of the real thing. You have to admire the craftsmanship. 

He sits it on his knee, like a ventriloquist would, its slack little legs dangling between his own. He’s holding it up by the scruff of its neck but that seems rude, so he wraps his hand around its lower back and tips it over his lap so he can investigate its workings. There’s an opening in the back but when Armie tries to penetrate it, the opening is too narrow for him to get his large hand in comfortably. He kind of wants to make this thing work now so he wiggles the tips of fingers through and starts to work his way up into Ti... the thing. He goes slow so he doesn’t break it, twisting his fist and corkscrewing in, slowly. Once he’s coaxed his knuckles past the tight aperture it gets easier, there’s a slight give and then he’s there, all the way in. He wraps his fingers round the stick in the hollow of its back and turns its head so it looks at him.

“Hey there Timotheé,” he says, “How’s it going?”

He turns its head away from him again.

“Don’t be like that. I like your harness, honest I do.”

The dummy gazes back at him, inscrutable, so he fiddles around until he finds out how to make its mouth open.

“Gottle of geer,” he tries, through his teeth, trying not to let his lips move. “Ello Armie.” Harder than it looks, ventriloquism. He manages to extract his hand but he doesn’t pack the dummy away, sits it in an armchair. 

When he comes back the next afternoon after an arduous day filming during which Ben made him say the line “I’m asking you to marry me, you little fool,” five hundred times before he was happy with it, Timmy has tipped to the side and its hair has got mussed up. Armie props it up and smooths it out. He’s not brushing its hair. He’s not. He’s just tidying it. He straightens its little harness. Timmy looked good in that thing. 

“Tough day today T.” he says. “Maxim’s a dick.”

Timmy would’ve got that line. Or he would have helped Armie get it. Lily is super nice and professional but he can’t help imagining how Timmy would look if he was playing the second Mrs de Winter. He picks up the dummy and he says to it in his Maxim voice, “Either you go to America with Mrs. Van Hopper, or you come home to Manderley with me.” He makes its mouth open to reply with Lily’s line, “You mean you want a secretary or something?” only he doesn't do it in Lily’s very proper British accent, but with a Hell’s Kitchen twang, and then he tips its head backwards and says his line in exactly the offhand, commanding way Ben had wanted, ”I’m asking you to marry me, you little fool.”

The dummy says, “Eh fuck you Armie. You think I’d marry a loser like you?”

**

Later that night, he sits it next to him on the bed as he watches tv. They watch the Channing Tatum episode of _Running Wild With Bear Grylls_ and then Armie opens up some porn on his laptop but he feels sort of half-hearted about it and he shuts it off before he gets anywhere near interested enough to come.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to Timmy. “You like way worse stuff than me.” 

When he wakes up the next morning, the dummy’s on the pillow next to him. He has a _Child’s Play_ moment, but then remembers that he’d left it there himself, and that he’d taken its shoes off. It had seemed like the right thing to do. He puts its shoes back on and sits it back in its armchair.

"Be good. Don't touch my stuff," he says as he leaves.

It’s a punishingly hot day. They’re filming out on the cliffs and Armie’s starched shirt has to be changed twice because he’s sweating through it, under his blazer and his cravat. God but he hates fucking Maxim de Winter. He makes Oliver look like an open book. That thought brings on memories of Crema and those long days: when it was hot, Timmy standing on his feet, only thin, wet swim shorts between them, or when the rain came and they bundled up in hoodies but kept their feet bare.

He gets in the sea to swim it all away, sweat and memories both, as soon as he’s free, then again in the pool back in the hotel. He feels lowkey melancholy, consciously lonely. The shoot’s going OK, despite the heat. He trusts Ben even if he’s worse than Luca with the metaphysical BS at times and he’s hopeful the film itself will be good, but he already knows the reviews are going to kick him six ways to Sunday for daring to think he can touch Olivier. He’s got the night off and most of the next day so he considers going out, driving up the coast maybe, or there's an invitation to another party, a promise of Monocan royalty and racing drivers, but he honestly can’t be bothered. He thinks about his quiet room and.... OK. He’s _not_ thinking about the dummy exactly. It’s just that it’s companionable. Something to look at when you get home.

It’s sitting on the armchair where he left it. Of course it is. Where else would it be?, he thinks to himself; ‘behind you with a knife’ is the next thought but it really isn’t that creepy once you’re used to it. He picks it up once he’s out of his shower and carries it with him while he gets himself a drink.

“I had a good swim,” he says. “Remember how cold that water was at the villa?” 

“You were such a wuss about it.”

“Was not.”

“ _my balls are shrivelling Timmy it’s like ice_...”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Well you couldn’t stand on the paving stones cuz they were too hot for your precious feet.”

“That was just an excuse so you would hold me.”

“I knew. You wanted me so bad, _anything Armie, anything_.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” the dummy says.

Armie takes a swallow of his scotch. “You want one?” he says to the dummy, “Oh forgot, sorry, no stomach for it. No heart either. Heartless, that’s you.” He swallows the rest of the scotch, pours another.

He wants to see what he looks like with the dummy, whether his lips move really obviously, he doesn’t feel like they do but he might be kidding himself so they go over so he can watch himself in the full-length mirror by the door,

“I miss you,” he says to the dummy.

“I’m right here,” he makes it say, and turns its head right the way round

“No you’re not.”

“You do know you’re cracking up right?” it says to him.

“Tell me something new,” Armie replies.

“ _You_ tell me something new.” 

“Um. How about… I’m sorry and I love you and I wish we could…”

There’s a short, soft knock on the door. Without thinking he leans over and opens it. Next thing, miracle, he’s got an armful of Timmy, _real_ Timmy, with a bag slung over one shoulder, burbling something about Budapest and someone’s private jet and 24 hours. 

He backs up and stares when he sees Armie, towel round his hips, with his new Maxim hair, up to his elbow in the other Timmy. 

Maybe it was that look of appalled turned-on-ness, or how Armie kept a hold of dummyTimmy while the real one got down on his knees, which leads to them ending up a few hours and every drop of lube Armie has later, with Timmy on his back, legs wide, ass canted upwards on a pile of pillows, while Armie works his fist up into his body. It’s not something they’ve done before but he had taken Armie’s cock so sweet and easy earlier, and wanted more, greedy little thing. Armie made him ask for it. He’d had Armie’s cock and his tongue and his fingers but it wasn’t enough, not enough until this moment when he might just be reaching his limit, but he’s so brave and beautiful under Armie’s fascinated gaze as Armie watches his hand disappearing into Timmy’s tiny, trusting body. He’s in charge of everything Timmy feels and it’s intoxicating to be this in control of him. Timmy had his eyes closed, lost somewhere, while Armie was coaxing his knuckles and the width of his palm past his rim, but now it’s done they’ve fluttered open again. He’s sweating and moaning, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he gets used to the impossible stretch of it, the demands that Armie is making of him.

He mumbles something and Armie says “What is it baby? Tell me - does it hurt?”

“No.. yes but good … I just... just… don't stop but can you move that thing? I can’t… oh jesus Armie … it keeps looking at me.”

The dummy is sitting next to the bed and Armie can’t really … disengage so he throws a pillow and it falls to the floor. Armie can see one eye, gazing up at him where he kneels on the bed while Timmy trembles around his fist.

Timmy is edging towards some out-of-body state, his fingers clutching compulsively at the sheets and his thighs shaking, and Armie lays his free hand gently on Timmy's half-hard cock. He starts to stroke it as he moves his wrist into Timmy’s body, finding the places where the thick pressure from within sends Tim’s eyes rolling back into his head. Armie leans in and presses his mouth into Timmy’s jaw; as they rock, he gasps again and again, and Armie speaks into his mouth “tell me it’s good.”

“It’s .. good, it’s good Armie..”

“Stay there,” Timmy’s cock is hard and wet under his hand now, “tell me you like it…”

“I.. I ..”

“Say ‘thank you Armie'…”

“Oh fuuuck.. Th…”

“Say it…”

“Th… thank you.. Armie,” and he comes with a shudder and bears down as Armie flexes his fist deep in his body.

Armie’s very gentle as he pulls out. He fetches a cloth, wipes Tim up, closes his legs and pulls the covers up over him. He's limp and already half-asleep so Armie kisses his forehead and twists to turn the light out.

Just before he falls asleep, Armie gets up again, picks the dummy off the floor and puts him back in his chair. 

When Timmy emerges from the covers the next morning, winking and wincing a little as he eases himself up against the bank of pillows, Armie puts a tray in front of him: pancakes and coffee and juice.

The dummy is wrapped up. Armie's going to gift it to the LGBT Community Center so can they auction it off at their Pride party.

“Eat up,” he says. “And then... we need to talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inexcusable. 
> 
> Why don't you make something good come out of this catastrophe by following this fictional Armie's lead and donating to the LGBT center in NY or near you for Pride month? Maybe it'll buy me a shorter time in hell. https://gaycenter.org


End file.
